The windpipe seems custom made for the perfect pinch. My thumb, and my forefinger, seem to know that

The windpipe seems custom made for the perfect pinch. My thumb, and my forefinger, seem to know that ridge of cartilage so very well, despite each one being its own brand of unique. It’s why they run over it, squeeze, pinch, test it. They try and know it through touch, like the blind.  It’s the frailty that really enamours me, though. It feels so hard to the touch, surrounded by all that deliciously silky flesh. There’s a strength to it, but it seems more bravado than fact, something that is supposed to deter rather than defend. I can feel it starting to give way as I put some pressure on it, and it is intoxicating. Just writing about it has my own throat start to contract and retreat, trying to get away from the mere idea of having a hand there putting increasing pressure on it. To know that that idea excites you, that it drives your thighs together and has you palpitating (no, not there, there), is one of the most beautiful mysteries that I can think of. That you can allow me to enjoy that power, of having the ability to crush that frail, essential part of you, and to threatento use it. Well. You fascinate me, with thoughts like that. Because you have to have the same reaction. Your throat must start tingling thinking of my fingers there. Basic survival instinct demands it. But you’ve got another part of you, a duality of reaction, that is wholly unique. And that’s you all over, you gorgeous creature, you alien thing. You’re quite apart, a separate, a foreign thought in an otherwise domestic head.  There are some that fear the other. I’ve always been a little in love with it. Curiosity gets the better of me, you see. I’d rather understand than flee.  And I want to understand you. Every piece. Each molecule, and every synapse. I want the blueprints, and the instruction manual. I want to write that manual. To be the first to put it all together.  You. The new frontier.  -- source link

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